


"Grandpa" + Where's Alaska?

by callmecloudybutdontreally



Series: CountryHumans [3]
Category: Geography (Anthropomorphic)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23020243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmecloudybutdontreally/pseuds/callmecloudybutdontreally
Summary: "Grandpa"Britain hates being called Grandpa by America, because, well, he's more of his son than his grandson. If only Delaware hadn't told him to call him grandpa when he was younger."Where's Alaska?"Continuation off of Grandpa. Alaska is off in Russia, looking for oil, when they get a mysterious call from someone whose name Russia is familiar with.
Series: CountryHumans [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599724
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	"Grandpa" + Where's Alaska?

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for all yall looking for either the next chapter of May(the) Flower Bloom or Hetalia - ill write something for it later, ok? - but im on mobile so this is getting tagged weird until tomorrow.

"Hey, Grandpa?"

  


Britain sighed, responding with a quick "ello" between sips of his tea. It was the perfect temperature, made by France after years of them being back together. There was only one person who could provide a finer brew, and that was only if Ireland was  _ really _ happy that day. Nevermind the brew - he still hated it when America called him Grandpa, because that would mean the other thirty seven states which had been born after were now his great grandchildren, even though America was technically the personification of them all together - forget that, it was too confusing to calculate what generation they were on.

  


He heard America fidget with something, opening the door and saying thanks to the postman. He heard pen on paper, a box or two being placed near the door, then the door shutting with a click and the sound of children screaming and running upstairs. Honestly, Britain had no idea how many "children" America was planning on having, for thirty seven was far too many - in fact, the thirteen he'd had was too many, but Scotland had been right about their infatuation with conceiving at the time, for they had been young and they had been hopeless romantics.

  


Well, young by Rome's standards.

  


"So, Grandpa-"

  


"If you are not going to call me Britain then at least refer to me as something other then "Grandpa". It puts an intense amount of strain on my already withering self confidence."

  


"Sure thing, James. Anyways, I just got this package a few seconds ago-"

  


"As I heard," Britain took a sip of his tea, and he heard France snickering. "Oh shut up Mime, it's America. He  _ must  _ narrate his life." America made a sound of mock offense, so painfully obvious that it wasn't even funny.

  


"Oh how dare you insult me in the ways of my people-" there was a gunshot in the house, and what sounded like screaming "-UNCLE JERSEY- WHAT THE HELL IS PUERTO RICO DOING WITH A GUN- I'm sorry, Spain wanted me to watch him, he deaged again - DON'T POINT IT AT OHIO- FLORIDA! CALIFORNIA! PUT YOUR CLOTHES BACK ON!"

  


Britain put the phone on the table and sighed, before putting it on speaker phone. France was cackling, and upstairs he could hear the sound of howling coming from Scotland's room. Perhaps he could call Ireland, because the man would love to hear about his nieces and nephews annoying their grand- father.  _ Father _ .

  


It was a few moments before America came back, having apparently settled everything. Except for one thing. "So, James, I have no fuckin clue what's in this box. Looks like cleats or something- WASHINGTON, GET YOUR ASS DOWN FROM THERE! GIVE TEXAS HIS HAT BACK! - with a bunch of climbing gear? Dunno, maybe Canada knows?"

  


"And you're telling me this why?" at the sound of her and Scotland's son's name, all laughter and good mood stopped. Wales had even turned off the lawn mower. "One of your, ah,  _ states _ , ordered some climbing gear for something - wouldn't be the first time."

  


"Well, yeah," America said. "But this is different. It's addressed to me, Samuel Washington, not any of the States. Alaska would be the biggest option, then, but I don't think either of them would put it under my name - especially not Ohio. Alaska doesn't even accept his last name as Washington. McCarthy or something, I dunno."

  


"Call them anyways, you can see about it."

  


"Oh! Also, before I get them - MICHIGAN, NO. DO NOT GIVE WISCONSIN THAT DIRTY WATER- UNCLE NEW YORK, YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO STOP THIS-" another gunshot, and more screaming, and America sighed. "Listen, I got a letter from, uh, Nepal, I think. Dunno what the guy wants me for, or why he'd export climbing gear to me, unless he was trying to get one of the States to attempt Everest, but only Alaska would do that and he's got a lot with how the winter's been and ice and stuff so I dunno-"

  


"Slow down," Britain said. "Who did the letter come from, again? Nepal?"

  


"Yeah."

  


"And what was in the boxes?"

  


"A bunch of climbing gear - cleats, ice picks, climbing belts, bungee cords - expensive stuff, and its top quality. Not sure what he wants me to do with it."

  


Britain hummed in response, France now talking with Scotland about how long Brexit was taking, and that Boris Johnson should just get on with it. "If you want to talk about Brexit, then call up Ireland why don't you? Both of them!"

  


"Aye wa' doin thet," Scotland responded. "Allo, Wales."

  


"Listen, James, I gotta go," another gunshot was heard, but there was no screaming this time. "I think Arizona just shot Montana - oh no wait it was New Mexico. Idaho, take the phone for a minute."

  


"I'm Iowa!"

  


"Whichever one you are - TAKE THE DAMNED PHONE WILL YOU - INDIANA YOU KNOW BETTER THAN THAT, PUT THE MAKESHIFT MOLOTOV AWAY-"

  


"Hey there Grandpa," an accented voice said. "How you been?"

  


"I'm not your grandfather, and what the bloody fuck is happening in that hell that America calls a house?"

  


"Oh, wow, getting vulgar Grandpa. Basically, your kids are back in the eighteenth century and dueling; Maine's hiding under the table with Hampshire; Michigan is trying to poison Wisconsin; Ohio just broke Oregon's arm; Utah's preparing some kind of, uh, ritual - he's got the cleaver out and his arms on the cutting board; Idaho isn't here, he's visiting Uncle Ireland; Indiana's gonna burn the house down, and Illinois is cheering him on; Vermont's kinda just watching TV, somehow; Hawaii is puking up lava again; Florida and California are comparing their tans-"

  


"That's not what I meant. Tell me the main gist of it." Britain interrupted. He did  _ not  _ want to hear what kind of mischief the Americans were getting into.

  


"That  _ is  _ the main gist of it," Iowa said. "The Dakotas and fighting the Carolinas - FUCK EM UP! - Virginia is trying to find a place to smoke that Pennsylvania hasn't put a "no smoking" sign on; Colorado and Montana are comparing sizes - ski sizes, mind you - with Ohio now; Texas managed to get a horse into the house and Arizona and him just rode through the back window - godspeed, you magnificent son of a bitch; Louisiana and Mississippi are throwing buckets full of leeches at Georgia and Alabama - serves him right, for kissing Quebec - West Virginia just stone Texas' hat from Washington and is now running around the house shouting "YEE-HAW" at anyone who gets in his way; Puerto Rico' complaining about the cold, and that's it."

  


"That's not fifty."

  


"No, I'm not watching everyone. DUDE! JERSEY JUST SHOT YORK IN THE BALLS! HELL YEAH!"

  


There was a struggle, before he heard harsh panting on the other end. "Hey, Dad," his eldest child said, obviously pained. "How's your day been?"

  


"Quiet, until America called."

  


"I dunno what the hell's going on - did you get a package earlier today, or even a letter? Delaware's talking about it with numb-nuts over there." York groaned. "I'm lucky he just grazed me."

  


"Yer lucky thet yer brather's gat such baed ayem," Scotland said, taking the phone. "If it were Eire, 'e woulda shot them buggers raight off, tell yeh thet."

  


"That's enough, Scot," Britain took the phone back. Honestly, all this information was giving him a headache. "York, do you have any idea why Nepal might've sent you the gear?"

  


"Have to ask Alaska," he said. "Not even gonna ask if I'm ok?"

  


"You've had worse happen to you then your testicals getting blown off," Britain said. "Where even is this Alaska?"

  


"He's in Russia," York said. "Well, not  _ in _ Russia, but on his soil - I mean, ground. Sorry, incest was a thing that happened."

  


"Alabama and Quebec?"

  


"No, Alaska and Russia. Don't ask."

  


-

  


Russia noticed a ringing sound behind him, and turned to face his partner, who was struggling to get his hands in his pocket. It wasn't the cold, but it was the mittens that they wore in order to make it look like they felt cold, because who knew if there were still people out in Siberia from Папа and his rule? Unlikely, but you could never play it too safe.

  


"Россия, подожди!" Alaska called, the struggle against his coat pocket evident. When he finally managed to get it out, after two missed calls and dropping it in the snow once, he answered. "Да? I mean - yeah?"

  


Russia turned back, looking forward, before he walked towards his uncle. An interesting situation, as Папа had never told him he had an uncle, but now that he knew that he was one of Amerika's, ah, later bloomers, his relationship was much easier. No, Alaska made it very clear that he did not hate Amerika or the States, treating them as Russia did his favorite siblings, but he preferred alone time or other cold countries, like Russia and Canada, to hang around with. Hard to think that a State with so much potential had been cast aside and left to wait for nearly a century before he was finally permitted to become a state.

  


Ouch.

  


"Where am I? I'm at home, err, near home, at least. Dutch Harbor is maybe three hours away, if I took a plane from right here. Why?" He slipped the speakerphone button on, so that both Russia could hear and he could attach it to the strap on the side of his coat.

  


"No, that doesn't answer the question," oh, that wasn't Amerika speaking, that was someone else. "Where are you? Is this Alaska?"

  


"Yes, it is me. I am near the international dateline. Why? Who are you?"

  


The international dateline was a lie, but if the man knew his name and wasn't a mortal that the secret had been given to then it had to be something important, especially since Alaska had given the states a notice of absence for the next few weeks. They were in Siberia, and while that alone was a large area giving the person a rough estimate was never a good idea.

  


"I am Nepal."

  


Блядь.

  


"Who?"

  


"Let me speak to Russia. Is he there?"

  


Yes, he was, but he wasn't going to talk to Непал. He just didn't have the time when there was oil to be found, god forbid Amerika find it first. Alaska was the only one he trusted, at this point, and that was strained, because he'd seen what Hawaii could do to make him talk. No, it wasn't gross (to him, anyways, though his judgment had been clouded by years of the people of Moscow starving and beatings from his father) but it was enough to make him look away as Alaska gave right in to her ways.

  


"No, he is not."

  


"Yet you were speaking Russian, likely to someone from Russia's land, which means you are not on the international dateline and are either in or out of American soil, and you are three hours out of Dutch Harbor. Now please, let me speak to Russia."

  


Alaska was silent, and the two stared at each other for a few moments, before Alaska raised a hand for the question. Russia sighed, slipping off his glove and taking the phone. He could feel the chill of the cold metal, but it was pleasant.

  


"Да?" he asked. "I have better things to do,  _ Непал _ ."

  


"म निश्चित छु कि तेलको लागि तपाईंको खोजी मैले प्रस्ताव गरेको भन्दा बढी महत्त्वपूर्ण छ, हो? पैसा, अमेरिकी पैसा, सधैं कामको सट्टा दिन लिन सक्दछ, हो?" Непал asked, and it took Russia a few moments to translate. Alaska was no help, simply standing there, quite rather confused. Yes, Amerikan money was more valuable than Ruble, but was he so desperate that he would participate in one of Непал's games in order to earn it? No.

  


They  _ had  _ been good friends in the past, but things had changed. The Tsar had been overthrown, his father had begun the ritual of pleasuring himself nightly, he traded his body and dedication for the safety of his siblings, which still seemed to fail on multiple occasions, especially in Chernobyl, he devoted everything towards the communist cause, only to watch as his father died in his arms, much to his surprised sadness. Now, he wasn't, because no matter what he tried to do to bring Папа back, someone would always stab him, kill his father once more, and put him back through all the troubles of before. The communist cause changed people, and Russia liked to think it for the better because he rather enjoyed entertaining the idea of peace and love to Kazakhstan and Ukraine, maybe even Bellaruse if he felt like it.

  


"Нет," Russia growled. "I will not. No matter what it is-"

  


"We are climbing Everest," Непал said. "Россия." he added for emphasis. "I am gathering people to climb Everest- a charity event to help China with her Coronavirus breakout."

  


"No thank you," Russia said. "A disease is in your country, you deal with it." he passed the phone back to Alaska, motioning for him to cut it off. "It is not anyone else's problem unless it comes to them."

  


"That's not what happened with the anthrax, is it?"

  


Alaska stopped, raising an eyebrow, but he didn't comment. The top half of Russia's face was white, as he knew, and the red was already beginning to slide out from under his fingernails. How  _ dare  _ he mention that.

  


"Or, say, Chernobyl? The Dolphin Bell incident?"

  


"Listen, Непал, you can shut up-"

  


"I won't stop listing incidents until you show up. Rasputine's murder, the babushka lady-"

  


"Enough-"

  


"I'm just gonna-" Alaska pressed the red phone button, ending the call. Not even a second later he was being called again. He turned the ringer on silent. "Yeah. It's not worth it."

  


Russia was seething. All of his hair had turned white, as well as the middle of his face blue. Not that you'd be able to see it unless you were standing where Alaska was, which was right in front of him. His ushanka did a good job of covering everything.

  


"Россия? Россия? Russia? Hey, man, are you alright?"

  


Russia turned to his uncle, before he let out a yell and dropped himself to the ground. Damn that Непал, damn it all! If he were in Moscow, no doubt an intense snow storm would have struck the city, but seeing as he was rather very far away from his Heart, the blizzard struck in the already poor weather. Nevermind, Alaska would be fine, for he had his own fits of passion in the many accidents he'd had whilst fishing.

  


"We gonna stay here or keep going?" Alaska questioned, snapping Russia out of his thoughts. "We've only been out for maybe a couple of hours, and there's still miles to scour, hm Alexander?"

  


"Да," Russia responded. "It would be quicker if we left our winter clothing here, would it not Todd?" he motioned towards a small hole under some trees which was completely void of snow. He knew they'd probably miss it on the way back, but which one of them cared? Neither.

  


"It would be, yeah," he said, slipping his gloves off and placing them under the tree. The phone buzzed in his pocket again. "I'll just take my gloves off though - we probably won't be able to find this spot again."

  


"We may not, Нет."

  


"Да."


End file.
